


112/80

by cyclical



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Genre-Typical Violence, Gratuitous Worldbuilding, M/M, Minor Character Death, despite the fact that its basically just 16k of sexy robot kageyama lmao, this was the hardest 16k ive ever written in my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24948184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyclical/pseuds/cyclical
Summary: The leftover team was then comprised of six core members, and six auxiliary ones. There were mechanics like Asahi and Yamaguchi—and the droid bastard Tsukishima—but most of them had been muscle. Hacking, prosthetic repairs, information trading. Karasuno did it all.(Cyberpunk AU)
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Comments: 22
Kudos: 75





	112/80

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings:**  
>  \+ graphic violence  
> \+ blood / injury / needles / etc  
> \+ body modification (limb replacement, etc)  
> \+ genre-typical gore  
> \+ vague allusions to cyperpunk politics
> 
> [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/74nepLehepiO1SCHJ59hck?si=Stb3S90MROWMQkW8cmSk-Q) rrrr

Kageyama has no right to life. His second birth in itself was an abomination; the UN Security Council had voted a staggering thirteen to fifteen in banning the use of cybernetic modification of the human body—much less given Japan the rights transform a child into a vessel with which to conduct the military affairs of the state—but Kageyama and his pod had been established anyway: a bit of legal gray area, and completely blacked out by seven different branches of federal agencies since its genesis.

He doesn’t have much memory beyond his first days with the cortex implant. There’s too much medical jargon that he’d have to parse through—not an entirely impossible job for him now that his ethernet cables have been removed to make space for wireless replacements—but the low-thrum of a headache settles into the background, everyday pain of just _existing_ that he can’t quite muster up the energy to do it himself. Kageyama’s face had been largely untouched, which he’s silently grateful for, and the implant was hidden by a painstakingly regrown skull, skin, and hair. He still marvels at his body, sick with it sometimes: the replacement lungs, the missing fingers, the smooth; glass-like plating of his entire left hip and thigh.

It was a slow decision, whether or not to refit his left arm—develop prosthetics from the forearm down or prolong the recovery process by amputating higher up, just underneath the shoulder? Kageyama doesn’t remember much because the pain had been so bad, and every minute he hadn’t spent trying to scream his throat raw was spent either asleep or forcibly sedated; he tries not to think too hard about those perilous months between the accident and the first surgery.

The arm ended up being amputated anyway.

And after the installations of its fine-motor functions, he was eventually let alone.

“These are my rooms?” Kageyama asks, blinking at the floor he’s been relocated to. He takes a separate elevator with three armed guards. He waits patiently for them to undo his restraints, watching the research team watch him through one of the plexiglass walls. It’s unlikely that Kageyama will attack them—he never picked up that streak of animalistic violence that came with the first round of test subjects—but it never hurts to be too careful.

One of the intercoms crackles to life. “Yes. Welcome home,” and that’s the blue-haired doctor. He’s seen her a couple times, but she usually only scrubs in for surgeries and not the post-op work. Kageyama’s motor control isn’t locked, so he figures it’s fine to start wandering around on his own. There's surveillance embedded into every crevice of this place anyway.

Kageyama sits down on the edge of the bed. He sinks into the mattress, puts two hands in his lap and drags his toes across the carpet. Presumably, he’s already been moved onto Phase 2. He’s not fully automated, so cycling participants for Turing tests would be a waste of resources, but he’s dug around enough to know that the lab has a similar program in place for him. “Will I have handlers?” he asks.

There’s a telling pause.

“Something like that,” another voice replies. It’s deeper than the first doctor’s, and sounds smoother besides. It takes Kageyama a minute to place who it is: the program director. “Of course we have a security team who will be protecting you round the clock—”

 _Protecting_ _you_ _,_ Kageyama thinks to himself.

“—and you’ll get some visitors—”

Kageyama perks up. He eyes track to the glass door that boxes in a section of his living room.

“Visitors?” he asks. 

“Civilians, yes.”

Kageyama’s only ever been surrounded by researchers or the like. He’s had his fair share of days with military personnel, and spoken briefly with various heads of government agencies regarding his progress, but never a civilian. Kageyama doesn’t know how long they would be able to stay, or how the lab would cover up the breach in security, technically, or any of the other details, but after years of all those white walls and gloved hands and the guns to the back of the head, there’s very little that could convince him out of the promise of a real conversation.

“When?” he asks. Then: “Am I not allowed to know?”

“Soon enough,” the director says. “You’ll see.”

Kageyama’s first, and only friend had been a boy aged fourteen named Hinata Shouyou. It had still been the early days of his brain implant, so Kageyama hadn’t been able to engage quite so much as he wishes he did now—he had no ability to walk, after all, and he was still missing most of his left arm—but now that he’s given more time to himself in Phase 2, he often finds his thoughts straying back to the odd hours they spent together in the Pod Rooms after Hinata’s tests were over; he’d been the first success with the leg prosthetics.

He liked to sit by Kageyama’s bedside and tell him stories of the outside, all that having started when Kageyama mentioned that he didn’t remember much from before the accident, or the government’s highly illegal acquisition of his dying body for their bionics program. Hinata had been aghast, and Kageyama hurried to placate him— _the doctors said amnesia is normal, they had to remove some parts of my brain, and it’s a common response to traumatic situations_ —

Hinata rallied pretty hard after the news broke either way, and set about with such enthusiasm when it came to remedying Kageyama’s most pressing issue at hand that he’d imagined Hinata was still with him even after he’d died. At least that’s what Kageyama assumed had happened, having seen him come back paler and paler after all these new tests and hardware updates, and then the morning Hinata didn’t wake up; Kageyama tapped into the hospital comms just in time to hear the diagnoses, big words like _sepsis_ and _organ failure_ and _circulatory shock._

They’d put Hinata on a ventilator for the last twelve days of his life. Kageyama had only been a half-finished project when he finally passed.

Then it was just Kageyama and that big white room: the last of Pod Four.

Two weeks to the day of Kageyama’s move, he meets Iwaizumi Hajime. The man’s supposedly his civilian visitor, though if the posture is anything to go by, he’s definitely ex-military.

Kageyama’s never been a big talker, and Iwaizumi is clearly out of his depth, but he loosens up considerably over the course of their session. Either his years out of the field have softened him some, or he’s just a nice motherfucking guy because he’s so awkward about the entire thing that Kageyama actually ends up pitying him a bit, and supposes that Iwaizumi must have been thrown by the prosthetics—because the shimmering polymer of Kageyama’s arm is visible—that Iwaizumi, despite his best efforts, can’t keep his eyes off of.

Kageyama passes most of the time by asking questions, things like if Iwaizumi if he’s ever been on a plane (yes) and if he’s ever gone overseas (a trip almost every year) and if he likes to travel (yes, again). He tells Kageyama about some of his friends that he met through school at a sports club, and how a couple of the younger ones are about to graduate next month.

“Will I see you again?” Kageyama asks, when he gets up to leave. The question is guileless enough, but it still makes the man freeze. Kageyama tries to explain: “I don’t know if they’ll allow it. And I haven’t been outside before, so I can’t come find you, or—”

Iwaizumi’s brows pull together imperceptibly. “I’ll be back,” he says, though the line of his shoulders has gone tense. “Don’t worry.”

Kageyama is surprised by the intensity of the statement. “Okay,” he says. The right words won’t come to him for some reason. “Yeah—I’ll...okay.”

“I’ll see you next time then, Kageyama-kun.”

The doors behind him slide open. The words are out before Kageyama can stop them: “You too,” he says.

Kageyama fought it once, but that was a long time ago. He’d tried to bleed the code out of himself because it was the only way he could escape. Ripped off his fingernails trying to break down the doors, throwing himself against the observation room glass. They’d kept him on sedatives for a long time afterwards. And in his fits of delirium, he would scream like a child, the words tripping off his tongue: _Please just let me go home._

It takes three weeks for Iwaizumi to return. Kageyama spends the leadup to his visit in frenzied agony—as much as he can agonize in those rooms of his. He is allowed one hour of screentime on the television a day, but he can have his pick of books as long as they’re pre-approved by his handlers. It’s a bit of a silly rule, seeing as he’d largely parsed through most of the Internet by now, and can watch any movie he wants as long as he puts a little effort into working around the building’s firewalls, but he keeps his mouth shut about it in case someone decides that they want to start picking at his brain again.

“Iwaizumi-san!” Kageyama startles, when he finally notices him. He scrambles up to the glass of his viewing box. Iwaizumi hasn’t requested a chair this time—instead he opts for a cushion on the floor. It brings their faces closer together than the last time they met. “Sorry I—I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

Iwaizumi smiles. “That’s alright,” he says. “Kozume-sensei gave me the go ahead.”

Kageyama blinks at him. “Kozume-sensei?” he says. “Your friend?”

Iwaizumi’s hand curls, loose, in his lap. “Yes,” he says. “He helped me arrange an earlier meeting time with you today, so you can consider him yours as well. A friend, I mean.”

“Oh,” Kageyama says. Iwaizumi’s fingers are starting to move under the cover of his sleeves.

 _Do you understand?_ Iwaizumi signs. Military shorthand. _American_ military shorthand.

Kageyama nods.

 _Keep talking,_ Iwaizumi says.

“Is that alright?” Kageyama ventures. “I’ve never met him before.”

“He might come and visit you after I leave,” Iwaizumi says. “But I can’t say for sure. He’s pretty busy.”

“Oh...so Kozume-sensei works here?”

“Sometimes.”

 _Help get you out,_ Iwaizumi signs.

“Do you know when?” 

Iwaizumi shrugs. “It’s hard to say. It might be a while before he returns,” he says.

Iwaizumi weaves a couple more sentences about the rescue op between Kageyama’s questions—tells him about the spec-ops muscle: Kuroo and Atsumu and Bokuto—and manages to detail a bit of the workplace hierarchy of the lab. He’s very good at it. None of the tension shows in his voice; even when the security guard gives him a ten minute warning, far more amicable about things than she usually is with Kageyama, she doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong. She’s holding onto a pretty box, and is even smiling when she hands it off to Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi gives her a nod. “So it all checked out?”

“Yeah, the director cleared it himself.”

“Cool,” Iwaizumi says. “Appreciate it, man.”

Kageyama watches curiously as he makes his way back with the box. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor. “What’s that?” he asks, hoping the question doesn’t come off as rude. He’s seen similar things in some of the movies he’s watched, but doesn’t want to get his hopes up about it.

“I did some digging, and found out that it’s your birthday this week,” Iwaizumi says, pushing the present carefully through the delivery latch. “So I brought you something, but it’s not that fancy or anything. I hope you don’t mind.”

Kageyama’s eyes go wide. The unbridled surprise on his face makes Iwaizumi’s heart feel a bit funny. He watches as Kageyama picks the box up, and set it down carefully on the floor.

“It’s my birthday,” Kageyama says to himself, like he can’t quite believe it. He smooths his fingers over the lopsided bow Iwaizumi tied on the top. “And this is my...birthday present.”

Kageyama’s gift is more or less a glorified teddy bear. Iwaizumi didn’t have much reason to buy it for him in the first place, but Kageyama still holds it up almost reverently to eye level.

Iwaizumi’s eyes flick down to his hands again, half hidden by his jacket. 

_Inside,_ he signs. _Instructions._

Kageyama blinks. “Thanks for the gift,” he says. “It means a lot.”

The door behind slides open before he can say anything else. Iwaizumi’s hands go back into his pockets.

“No worries kid,” he says, and gets to his feet. Kageyama does too, but not before he folds up the wrapping paper carefully to one side. He takes care not to step on it when he stands. “I’ll try to come back as soon as I can.”

“That’s alright, Iwaizumi-san. Thank you for visiting me again,” Kageyama says politely. “Please take care.”

“You too, Tobio. Thank you.”

Kageyama doesn’t like to be touched—being called in for hardware work is one of the few things he genuinely dreads—because there was a point in time where he’d clawed his eyes open every other day to find some limb of his had been reprogrammed, those few months where he woke and slept in turn to the blinding pain that accompanied his sternum grafts and the wheeze of his artificial lungs.

But he can’t fight the orders, no matter how much he dreads them, and trudges his way to the lab on Floor 12 when the orders come through. He strips obediently by the bed, and lowers himself into it without being asked. Restraints over arms and ankles. A pillow under his head. Kageyama closes his eyes against the fear that’s started to crawl up his throat. A slow half hour. Then, wires blooming like a flower from the open cavity of his chest.

There’s a touch of metal on his hip. “How does this feel, Tobio?”

Kageyama licks his lips. “Cold,” he says.

The hand moves a bit lower on his thigh. “And now? Warmer or colder than the last?”

“Colder,” he says.

He can hear the chatter of the engineering team somewhere to his left. The doctor he’d been with moves to check something on one of their monitors. Kageyama keeps getting asked the texture or temperature of this and that, how this feels, how many fingers are on your stomach right now?

By hour three, Kageyama’s shivering, forehead drenched with cold sweat. He tries to keep his body still, but it’s a bit of a useless fight; the next time he’s asked to compare the differences in sensations between his prosthetic arm and the human one, he can barely get the words out of his mouth.

“Keep an eye on his blood pressure, Maru-san,” someone says. “We’re almost done with his arm here.”

Kageyama’s head lolls against the pillows. The fist-sized device that has since latched onto the space on the inside of his left arm makes him nauseous. It keeps getting hotter and hotter— _we’re just_ _checking the upper boundaries of your new plating, Tobio, calm down_ —until Kageyama can’t feel anything but the way his arm feels like he’s just burning, and burning—

His system starts going haywire, which doesn’t help the headache. There’s a warning that flashes even in his close-eyed periphery, saying that there’s a foreign device on him that’s headed towards a hideous 350 Kelvin, and he should consider dialing down the settings of his nerve strands to prevent permanent damage on his arm. There’s a heaving whine in his ears that won’t seem to stop, and it isn’t until a bite guard’s shoved between his teeth does Kageyama realize the noise was coming from _him._

 _It hurts,_ he wants to say, but can’t. Even if he manages, the doctors won’t stop. They’ll keep going and going until they’re finished, even if it means rebooting his systems every time he passes out.

“Heading into our third hour,” someone says. The words marble strangely in Kageyama’s ears. “We’re making good progress here. Let’s keep up the good work.”

A pair of cool hands on Kageyama’s cheeks. A penlight shines into one eye, and then another. He feels a needle slide into the vein on his neck. Glucose drip, most likely.

His stomach swoops like a bird in flight. Kageyama imagines himself on the wings of a plane, clinging onto the side of a cloud. The sky opens up like a depthless gash in front of him, and stains every one of the hands that touch him blue.

Iwaizumi becomes something of a friend to Kageyama in the coming months.

He’s allowed to visit once every two weeks, and is in the habit of bringing presents with him, always waiting patiently as Kageyama works off the wrapping paper and sets it aside to add to his collection of scraps. After the first plushie, there came a second. A nice pair of shoes, and a tiny game console called a _Tamagotchi._ Kageyama had been suitably entranced.

Usually Iwaizumi shares what he’s been up to, since a lot of Kageyama’s procedures are classified. Kageyama is sure the man has plenty ability to dig them up considering his long history in national espionage and his flourishing career in the slums of the cybertech underground—his swath of contacts play hard for him too—but Iwaizumi seems to know what Kageyama doesn’t want to talk about, and tends to steer clear of those topics altogether.

The plan is coming to slow fruition, as far as Kageyama can tell. Two or three more weeks, by Iwaizumi’s predictions. He’s not really part of the infiltration unit, so he isn’t able to give Kageyama an exact date. He expresses his worry about that, at first, but then Kageyama discloses as much as he dares about his training regimen, which seems to placate Iwaizumi some.

“I might not be there,” Iwaizumi says, again. He’s made it abundantly clear that, because he’s called in favors from all ends of his life, that he’d rather not pick at old wounds if he can. Something about a boy named Atsumu, whom Kageyama has already done his fair share of research about on his own time, but keeps his mouth shut about. Iwaizumi doesn’t know that Kageyama knows, probably. “I’m sorry.”

Kageyama’s started to pick up more human body language. So he shrugs. “That’s alright,” he says. “I can handle things on my own.”

Iwaizumi’s face softens a bit. He changes the subject. “How’s your arm?” he asks. He gestures to puffy skin where his prosthetics have been connected that peeks through Kageyama’s clothes. “I can ask around and see if they’ll give you some painkillers for that.”

Kageyama shrugs again. “It’s not too bad,” he says, and tries not to think about the feeling of fingers in his stomach. “I’m used to it.”

“What happened?”

“They’re doing work on my hardware,” Kageyama says. He looks down at the shimmering polymer that makes up the fingers of his left hand and the steady throb of his hip. He tilts his head to one side. “Though I don’t know why. System diagnostics indicate that I’m running at an optimal level.” 

Iwaizumi shifts in his chair. “So it’s not just your arm then.”

Kageyama looks up at him. “Most of my torso and part of my legs are also synthetic material,” he explains. Funny, he thought Iwaizumi already knew that for some reason. “I was intended for a hip implant, but they ended up replacing the muscle too,” he pauses thoughtfully. “And part of my brain as well. Which is why I suppose you are here.” 

Iwaizumi stares at him.

“There is still merit in a Turing test, even if I’m not AI,” Kageyama explains. “Conversing with you could bring up some possible defects, though…” his brows furrow. “Nevermind.”

Kageyama shuts his mouth, and flicks his eyes down to the Tamagotchi in his hand. _That_ train of thought just opened up a whole new world of nightmares.

“Tobio.”

He winces. “Mn.”

“Tobio.”

Kageyama mashes his fingers into the console buttons at random. He’s meant to be cleaning up poop, or something.

“ _Tobio,”_ Iwaizumi says. He sighs. Then: “Would you look at me?”

Kageyama chews his lip. 

Iwaizumi’s expression is unbearably gentle when Kageyama finally musters up the courage to look him in the eye. He’s sitting closer to Kageyama than he has in the past. He has freckles, underneath his tan. Kageyama hadn’t noticed that before.

“It’s okay if it hurts,” Iwaizumi proceeds to tell him. He’s leaning forward now, almost in Kageyama’s space. His breath fogs up the glass. 

Iwaizumi’s hands are folded neatly in his lap, and there’s nothing different about the way he looks or moves or breathes, and the guy isn’t even talking, for God’s sake, but it still makes Kageyama feel, inside, suddenly lopsided. He curls a hand in the front of his own shirt to give his hands something to do; that first declaration of pain.

“It’s okay if you can’t do it by yourself,” he says. “And if you want to cry, I won’t look.”

“I’m okay,” Kageyama says, at a loss for words. He doesn’t know how to make Iwaizumi understand. 

He’s never cried before. He doesn’t know what it’s like.

Kozume Kenma is the youngest doctor Kageyama has encountered at the lab so far. He’s pretty and sharp-eyed and petite; his expression hovers somewhere between mean and bored, a perpetual grimace; everyone clears out of the room without having to be asked as soon as he steps through the door.

“The audio feeds are disabled, no need to be so tense,” is the first thing he says, as he shines a penlight into Kageyama’s eyes. Kenma peers into them for a while, checking the constriction, and then asks if the cortex implant has any effect on his vision. “I’m one of Iwaizumi’s friends.”

Kageyama knows his face. It took him some time to dig up anything about him, but Kageyama has time to spare. “Kozume-sensei?” 

Kenma’s lips twitch upwards. “Something like that,” he says. He steps a step back from the table, and slides the stethoscope off his neck. Then: “I’m going to pull your gown aside, Tobio. I’d like to listen to your lungs.”

Kageyama jumps when he feels Kenma’s hands on his skin, but he doesn’t say anything about it, thankfully, just asks him to take a couple of pointed breaths as he probes gently at the scar down the center of his chest. Then he takes a second to pull up Kageyama’s charts on the holodeck by the bed.

“I booked this exam mostly for show,” Kenma says. “But I do want to know how you’re doing in case they’re not putting stuff on your record,” he says, and flips through a couple pages. “I took a look at the lab reports from your most recent operation last night, but everything’s running fine according to your engineering team,” he gives Kageyama a bland look. “Has anything come up on your internal scans?”

Kageyama shakes his head.

Kenma purses his lips, considering. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “If that’s the case, we might be able to run the operation as early as next week,” he says. “I don’t want more of these people messing with your circuitry if I can help it.”

Kageyama’s heart skips a beat. “Next week?” he says.

Kenma shrugs. “Ten days at most,” he amends. “We already have a three man cell lined up for your extraction. One for escort, two as bait and distract. I’ve also been told you can hold your own in a fight.”

“I can, but the...tracking system—”

Kenma waves a flippant hand. “We’ll take care of that,” he says. “And your hardware’s been debugged by the way. You’re welcome.”

Kageyama blinks at him. He has to work at his lower lip before he musters up the courage to ask: “Even my...?” he gestures vaguely at his head.

Kenma’s nose wrinkles. “That’s not an immediate concern,” he says. “My team will come up with a more permanent solution, but we’ll need you out of here first for that to be worthwhile. I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Speaking of,” Kenma says. He holds out a closed fist, then drops something in Kageyama’s hand. “This is for you.”

Kageyama cradles the transmitter in one hand, and peers down at it curiously. It’s a communicator. He’s never seen a model like this before.

“Custom specs,” Kenma says. “But I’d still be careful when you’re talking. Bugs everywhere on your floor.”

Kageyama uncaps one of the compartments on his left arm, uses it to secure the device.

“We’ll contact you when it’s time to leave,” Kenma says. Something flashes impatiently in his pocket. “But as long as you follow instructions, it should be a breeze,” he says. Then: “Iwaizumi briefed you on the plan already?”

“To the basement, and then the tunnels,” Kageyama recites dutifully. He’s meant to loot the armory clean on the way out, too. “I’m also not supposed to bring any personal items with me,” he thinks about the stuffed animals on his bed, and the little squares of wrapping paper already stuffed into the lining of his jacket. “But Iwaizumi-san said that my Tamagotchi was okay.”

Kenma huffs. It’s not quite a laugh, but close enough. “Sure. As long as you don’t get someone killed over that thing,” he says. He pushes back from the exam table and inclines his head, catlike, in Kageyama’s direction. “I’ll see you then, Tobio. Excuse me.”

When Kenma gives the green light for the extraction, he does it quick. Kageyama’s lying in bed one moment, then jolting out of it the next; the first explosion shocks him upright like he’s just been electrocuted. Atsumu appears like a ghost in the doorway as he’s in the midst of getting his gear in order. Their eyes meet. The glow off the emergency generator paints both of them red. 

Beyond Atsumu’s dark figure and the echo of their shoes on the floor, they see almost no one on the way down to the armory.

Kageyama hits the lights. His footsteps are muffled against the rubber floor.

Atsumu leans up against the wall, rifle slung across his front. He watches Kageyama carefully. “I don’t get it,” he says. 

Kageyama opens up the gear closet to fish out a harness. Steps into its skeleton, tightens the straps over his chest and thighs. Spends some time considering the merits of one handgun over another. 

Atsumu’s Kansai accent is grating. “Kozume’s _obsessed_ with you.”

Kageyama checks the cartridge of a Glock. He ignores the jab at his loyalties. “Were expecting something else?” he asks. Kageyama hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting very many people outside the research team and his rotating cell of trainers, but Atsumu is climbing rather rapidly up the list of people he’d like to never talk to again.

Atsumu shrugs. “Your prosthetic integration is remarkable,” he deflects. He crosses the room to peer over his shoulder at the weapons rack, and stands close enough to make Kageyama bristle, though doesn’t get any closer. “And you’re confident when you move.”

Their comms crackle to life before he can say anything else, and the building shudders with a fifth, well-timed explosion.

Atsumu’s attitude disappears almost immediately. He falls back. “Kuroo?”

“Miya,” comes a voice over the line, out of breath. “We gotta go. Plan’s compromised.”

“Kitty boy’s down?” Atsumu asks. He snags one of the standard-fit pistols from a shelf nearby. He flicks his eyes to Kageyama’s, and mouths: _you good?_

Kageyama nods, double checking his gear. He keeps a 10mm on hand. The gun had long been customized to suit his adjustments, even matches the polymer casing of his prosthetics—marbled by a glowing set of bone white and blue.

“We’re heading out, Bokkun,” Atsumu says, and pauses to give Kageyama a considering look. And Kageyama, who’s busy pulling a mask up over his nose and mouth, pauses to considers him back. He eyes the loose way Atsumu’s fingers are curled around his gun, how the corner of his mouth tips upwards when he talks, and puts all his sharp teeth on display. If Kageyama were someone else, he thinks he might even find Atsumu beautiful. 

“Okay,” comes Bokuto’s strained reply. “Make it quick, man. Kuroo’s in a bad way.” 

Kageyama tilts his head in the direction of the door. The feline gash of his eyes blinks once. Twice.

Atsumu clicks the safety off his gun. “Hang in there, Bokkun,” he says. “We’re comin’.”

Kageyama keeps one eye on Atsumu on his way down the stairs. Neither Kenma nor Iwaizumi had given him much information on them from the get go, but Kageyama’s managed alright, and done good research about the extraction team by himself. He’s found Atsumu’s mug shots, and all the bounties stacked on his head. His skills as a mercenary get him good attention underground, and all his calling cards say that he’s the kind of person who never questions the job. Something about his versatility, but something more about a brother—one who flitted in and out of his files like a bad habit.

And then the other two—Bokuto Koutarou and Kuroo Tetsuro. They’re old partners, defected from a spec-ops branch that had ties to both secret service and an organization with so many black bars in its name that even Kageyama gave up trying to decode it. They’ve been working together almost as long as they’ve been alive, but the black market’s recent acquisition of their skillset is more of a recent matter. _Personal ties,_ from what Kageyama could decipher, but, then again, loyalties are bought and traded by the pocketful in the underground. Atsumu has personal ties too, if that Miya O████ in his file was anything to go by. Still, Kageyama keeps his peace with the man, and keeps his mouth shut.

“They’ve sealed off the exits,” Kuroo tells them, when they finally meet up downstairs. His hand is sticky with soot and blood. Sweat trails down the back of his collar. Bokuto’s got his hands on Kuroo’s stomach, but he’s still losing an alarming amount of blood. “There’s no way out of here.”

Atsumu pokes his head out into the corridor. A round of bullets follow. He ducks back to safety, looking properly chastised. “The hell,” he grouses, fitting a new round into his handgun. Kageyama gives him an arch look. “Who’s on your security detail?”

Kuroo hacks a laugh from where he’s been eased against the wall. “Told you, ‘Tsumu. They’re everywhere.”

“Shut yer mouth,” Atsumu says.

Kuroo’s breathing is starting to come and go in a wet gurgle.

Kageyama sighs. “Miya-san,” he says.

Atsumu glances at him over his shoulder. “Jus' Atsumu's fine,” he says, distracted.

“I’ll cover you,” Kageyama says blandly. He knows his stats. “And regroup when I can.”

Over half of Kageyama's body is comprised of heinously expensive cybertech, so bullets aren’t likely to do him much damage. The guards, also, can’t run the risk of dishing him permanent injury.

“Kuroo’s going to bleed out if you don’t get a move on,” he says, before Atsumu can reply. “And I’m better equipped to take them out than any of you are anyway.”

The silence in the room is tense.

“‘Tsumu."

“Bokkun—”

Bokuto's eyes are turned down at the corners. Even that ridiculous hair of his seems to be wilting a bit. “I’m sorry,” Bokuto rasps. Kuroo’s blood is soaking his sleeves and the hem of his shirt. “I can’t watch him die. I just—I _can’t_.”

Atsumu still looks uncertain. “There’s fluid in his lungs,” Kageyama points out, a bit needlessly. He pulls his sleeve up a bit. “If you’re going, Miya-san, you have to go now.”

Atsumu sighs, and finally gets up from where he’s crouched by the doorway. His expression is set, though, for all that ease of his. “I’ll cover you as best I can,” he says. “Kenma’s gonna hate it if you don’t make it back in one piece. Said you’re wearing summa his best work.” 

“I’ll try not to disappoint,” he says.

“He secure?” Atsumu asks. Bokuto nods. He’s wrapped Kuroo’s gut as best he can, and is in the midst of slinging him over the shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Kuroo lets out a faint gurgle that could either be yes or no.

Kageyama bounces his weight on the balls of his feet, waiting for an opening in the opposing line. _Watch,_ he’d been taught. _Breathe._ So that's what he does, waiting until he catches sight of one of the guards at the front of the formation shift his weight onto one heel, then the other. It’s a nearly imperceptible adjustment, but it leaves his firing arm open. It turns him into the opportunity that Kageyama was waiting for.

 _Move out,_ says Miya’s mouth. 

Kageyama blurs. 

There’s a moment of confused shuffling from the opposition as the air shifts, and, suddenly, Kageyama has closed in far enough to grab the barrel of the first gun that invades his line of sight. He bends it so far upwards that the next shot hits the ceiling instead of blowing off his face. Kageyama launches himself into the air next, snapping his thighs shut around someone’s neck. Their windpipe flattens with morbid satisfaction.

He sees, in his periphery, Bokuto and Atsumu’s blurred figures dart out from their hiding place. He’s not the only one who notices them, but he’s the fastest to respond. He catches a bullet going after them with his left hand, and then the soldier soon after, slamming his head so hard into the ground he sees a couple teeth come loose. Someone’s neck snaps under his foot. His whole body trembles with adrenaline.

It’s then, when he turns to survey the emptied hallway, that he hears someone call his name. A face between the slats of the door. Kageyama turns, breath in his throat, a dream half remembered. And in between their ghostlike fingers—nothing but fire. 

The team makes good pace through the tunnels. Kageyama brightens his LEDs as they descend into chaos underground, if only to keep an eye on the creeping gray of Kuroo’s face.

“Bokuto-san,” Kageyama says ten minutes into their run without breaking pace. “You should hand him over to me.”

The man’s straining for breath. The sound of their boots on the concrete ring out down either end of the corridors. Kageyama thinks he might bypass the offer entirely, but then Atsumu jogs up to his side. His voice is low. “Bokkun,” he says. “You’ve gotta.”

His cheeks are ruddy from the run, but the skin underneath all that is sick with his worry. Bokuto screws his eyes shut, but eventually slows to a stop; the hand that’s wrapped around Kuroo’s side is white-knuckled, and trembles finely. “I know, Miya,” he says, far more quietly than a man of his caliber should. “I know.”

 _Personal ties_ is all Kageyama can think about, seeing Bokuto like that. He’s far too decorated a marksman to be swayed by the looming death of another soldier, but—

“I can give him something for the pain,” Kageyama offers, tugging his sleeve up and pops open a cartridge on his forearm, just underneath his elbow. “Field grade morphine. 18mg.” 

Bokuto’s eyes flick over to Kageyama. For a minute, it seems like he’ll refuse both offers and continue on himself, but then his cheek twitches and he’s shifting Kuroo carefully down from his shoulder. He puts a bloody hand next to Kageyama’s on the concrete, expression unreadable, and says: “Thank you.”

Bokuto uncovers the pale muscle of Kuroo’s right arm as Kageyama fumbles for an antiseptic swab. He works at the cap of the syringe with his teeth, two fingers pressed to Kuroo's jugular. Bokuto alternates between staring at Kageyama and staring at Kuroo. Kageyama sinks the needle into his exposed vein in short order, emptying the dose in one go. The tension drains from Bokuto’s shoulders. 

“His BPM’s hitting the 50’s,” Kageyama says. He reaches over to fumble with Kuroo’s shirt, trying to see where the most severe of the gunshot wounds are. His vitals aren’t looking good. They’ll just have to move and hope. “I can’t suture him like this, but the morphine should take effect soon,” Kageyama glances up at Bokuto. “He won’t feel too much of it by then.”

Then he gets off his knees, and maneuvers Kuroo onto his shoulder—same carry as Bokuto had been using earlier—taking care not to jostle him too much. Kuroo’s probably passed out from the pain, or close enough to it, but Kageyama’s mindful of his wounds, trying to find a way to put pressure on them even with the blood that’s starting to fill his lungs.

“We should pick up the pace,” Atsumu says. He’s taken the time to reload his rifle, and check up on his gear. “Don’t like being here any longer than we should.”

The tunnels aren’t wide enough to run three abreast, especially with Kuroo being carried on Kageyama’s shoulder, so they decide to let Bokuto lead, Kageyama next to him, and Atsumu to close up the rear guard. Bokuto navigates the underground with such conviction that Kageyama can’t help but admire his efficiency, though doesn’t even consider the grandeur of this moment or do any of it poetic justice in his head. 

“Here,” Bokuto says, and skids to a stop in front of a patch of wall that, beyond a tiny crevice that differentiates it from the patches of wall surrounding it for miles on either side, looks entirely unremarkable. But. Kageyama supposes that is the whole point of a hidden entrance. It takes some fumbling, but eventually the stone gives way to what appears to be an elevator, Atsumu shoves the three of them inside as gunshots start ringing down the length of the tunnel.

“Floor 24,” Bokuto says, rushed, jamming his fingers into a handful of buttons. “Let Kenma know we’re headed up.”

The elevator chimes happily, and jerks into motion.

“Pulse is 43 and dropping,” Kageyama says, right when Atsumu and Bokuto turn to look at him. “We have to start transfusions soon. The hemorrhaging is bad.”

He’s gotten Kuroo back on the floor again, and is in the midst of picking at his shirt when the elevator opens up to the sweeping architecture of Kozume Kenma’s _very expensive_ research facility. The man himself is already waiting on the other side, paler and far more severe-looking than when Kageyama saw him last.

“Kenma,” Bokuto’s expression crumbles. “Kenma, I’m sorry, we—”

Kenma cuts him off with one hand. He looks at Bokuto, and then at Atsumu when he says: “Sakusa is coming in. I have another team prepping a room right now.”

Kenma turns sharply on his heel. Kageyama follows him obediently, Kuroo still in his arms. They’re trailing blood all down the corridors, but it can’t be helped; this place isn’t really a hospital after all, and searching for a gurney would only be wasting time.

“This way, please,” Kenma says, showing him through a set of doors. “I need you to help me set up some equipment.”

They manage to get Kuroo hooked up to a series of machines before the doors burst open and a tall, harried looking man pushes through. He’s already got scrubs on and his hair pushed back off his forehead. The set of his brows are displeased, but he’s undeniably handsome even so. His touch is practiced when he joins the two, peeling back Kuroo’s shirt to peer at the worst of his wounds.

“18mg of morphine, injection,” Kageyama rattles off when prompted. “Dose was administered sixteen minutes ago.” 

The surgeon nods. He’s holding a mask over Kuroo’s face, then double checks the anesthetic before changing gloves again. “Dr. Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he introduces, then. It’s a curt statement, given between two different motions, as if he can’t be bothered to spend time giving out his own name. “If you could stay and assist…”

“Tobio. Kageyama Tobio.”

“Kageyama-san, I would appreciate it.” 

This is the first time anyone’s asked for Kageyama’s time like it means something. He nods twice in quick succession.

Sakusa’s eyes flick to Kenma’s then. “We’ll begin the procedure now,” he says.

Kenma doesn’t give any outward sign of acknowledgement, but his expression clears up some. His eyes flick to Kageyama, then to Sakusa. “I’ll give you two some space,” he says. “Pardon me.”

Bokuto and Kenma are sitting together when Kageyama finds them after the operation. He’d been offered a shower and a change of clothes. His hair is still dripping a bit onto his shirt as Bokuto shoots to his feet and sweeps him into a wet hug, pounding Kageyama’s back in emphatic thanks. Everything about the man is expansive and overly-familiar. “Thank you for bringing Kuroo back,” he sniffs, eyes like two wet coins. “Thank you.”

Kageyama opens his mouth, despite being at a loss for what to say. “Er,” he says, rather eloquently. “You’re welcome.”

His eyes flick to Kenma’s, hoping for some relief. “Let him rest, Bokuto,” he says. Then, to Kageyama, he says: “You worked hard. Thank you.”

Kenma’s drawn his knees up under him, and folds himself into the arm of the couch, catlike and boneless. The guy seems to have warmed up since they last met, but Kageyama’s still hesitant, taking a seat next to him. He’s playing on a little device that makes noises every so often, fingers blurring over the controls, as Kageyama tries to reconcile the terrifying stare that Kenma’s unleashing onto the screen with the man who’d built half the limbs in Kageyama’s body.

Bokuto’s chattering away with Atsumu, his biceps competing with his shoulders as to the livelihood of his shirt now that he’s out of his gear. Atsumu’s got an arm slung casually over the back of the loveseat opposite, offers Sakusa space to lean into his side. Sakusa doesn’t take it. He’s changed his face mask to a black one—matches his pretty hair and pitless eyes and the rest of his soul-sucking outfit—and has crossed his arms tightly over his chest, shoulders hunched and gaze flitting about the room, almost like he’s tempted to get up at any minute and just walk out on his own.

Kageyama catches his eye briefly, and a commiserating look passes between the two of them. 

He doesn’t actually know why he’s here, feeling like he’s waiting for something to happen, but for lack of things to do, and places to be, Kageyama stays put. He glances nervously from one side of the room to another.

“Kenma,” Bokuto says, stretching one leg out to poke his shin. Kenma presses harder on the buttons of his Switch. “Kenma,” Bokuto says, louder this time. Kageyama glances between them nervously. Neither Atsumu nor Sakusa seem perturbed, despite the way Kenma bristles like a cat that’s been rubbed the wrong way when Bokuto starts whining for real. “ _Kenmaaaa_ —”

Kenma’s glare is withering. Bokuto doesn’t explode instantaneously underneath it, surprisingly enough, but he does shrink back into his seat, chastised. “When’s Akaashi coming back?” he asks. Two more centimeters of his mouth pushed out and he’d be pouting hard enough to hang something off his bottom lip. “You have someone with him right?”

“Romeo’s sending one of his guys,” Kenma says.

“He’s not coming?”

“He’s busy.”

“Who do you think it’ll be?”

“I don’t know, Bokuto-san.”

“Is it Ushiwaka?”

“Ushijima-san’s working this week.”

Bokuto’s eyes are sparkling. “Then it’s Shou-kun?”

Kageyama frowns. It’s been years since Hinata died, but even that name, only halfway similar, is enough to make his gut clench.

A door slams open. It’s followed by the sound of excited footsteps over the hardwood floor, and a set of significantly slower footsteps soon after.

Then: “I’m here!” someone shouts.

Kageyama freezes in his seat—save the hand that’s skittered out of his lap—because that’s _Hinata’s_ voice, and that’s the odd sound of his prosthetics pattering against the floor, and that’s the still-red shock of his hair as he comes in through the door, followed by a slightly taller boy with elegant eyes and overgrown hair.

Hinata’s chattering about something on his way in, greeting the room at large by waving both hands at lightspeed. He looks so comfortable in this crowd, big-eyed and pink-cheeked; he’s filled out since Kageyama had last seen him—shot up in height and muscle, broad in a way that suggests good food and good training; his gait is smooth, and confident, and—

“Kenma!” he hollers. “Sorry I’m late! I was on the way over, but then a whole building exploded, and they closed off a bunch of streets, and I promised that I wouldn’t take Akaashi-san underground because it’s not very good for his health, _and_ it’s totally not safe and smells super bad, and—”

Hinata’s eyes meet Kageyama’s.

He stops dead in his tracks. A second, then two, of absolute disbelief. One hand flies to his mouth, and another twists up in the hem of his shirt. Kageyama’s forced to bear witness to the slow crumpling of his face: his little nose, all his fine features, and his pink mouth. 

Hinata’s voice is wrecked when he finally manages to speak. It’s better than what Kageyama’s got though; he can’t even get his mouth to work properly. “I’m not—this isn’t,” his hands are trembling finely. So much of him Kageyama had forgotten, all the precious details that blurred over all the years and years apart. “It—am I...Kageyama?”

Hearing his name makes it real somehow. Kageyama doesn’t even realize how tight his throat has gotten until Hinata crosses the room in three big steps, and reaches out to cradle his face close. Kageyama’s hands are fisted in Hinata’s shirt, so tight that his knuckles creak with the pressure. 

His eyes seem to be searching Kageyama’s face for something. Then Hinata’s knees hit the floor with two bruising noises, and Kageyama goes down with him, thinking: maybe this is what Iwaizumi had meant that one time— _it’s alright if you want to, I won’t look._ It feels like someone’s taken a knife to Kageyama’s chest, has cut open his sternum and peeled back his ribs one by one, like a fist and phantom pain of his heart.

“I thought you died,” Kageyama finds himself saying. He listened to Hinata flatline. “There was a ToD. I heard it, I swear. They wouldn’t tell me when you’d left; I would’ve given you my lungs, anything—”

One of Kageyama’s hands come up to tangle in Hinata’s hair. Pulls him closer that way, his left arm slung tight across Hinata’s shoulders—broader, now, with time.

“I left too early,” Hinata says weakly. Kageyama can feel Hinata’s heart beating where skin meets skin. The whole world’s narrows down to only him. “‘M sorry. I’m sorry.”

The underground, Kageyama has discovered, is an umbrella term used to describe anything related to the uptick of illegal cybernetic activity that began in the past decade or so. The underground has ties with the bionics market, but is not the market itself—apparently there’s a bit of tension between the two despite their similarities—mostly because there is no solid system of organization that links any of its members together. Thanks to its overwhelming population of paranoid bastards, the community lacks a clear census or headcount, and is comprised mainly of names spread by word-of-mouth, or contacts from old jobs. 

Goods and services are all up for grabs underground—covering mercenary work and muscle like Bokuto and Atsumu—and gray-area operations that aren’t necessarily addressed by the law upstairs. Most groups run in cells no larger than six or seven. Atsumu explained— _it’s because loyalty is hard to come by_ , but Kageyama’s aware that it, in part, is likely also because of the ridiculously high turnover rate. It’s jail or death by the handful down there.

Hinata hadn’t actually been part of the op itself, at least not to his knowledge, but Kageyama knows that Kenma had masterminded the entire thing, and Kageyama _also_ knows that Kenma’s the kind of man who can lead spies in circles for his own amusement, who plays cards close to the chest, and is somehow always three steps ahead of everyone else. He suspects most of the affair was planned from the start—Romero had known he’d be taking Kageyama in, he’s sure—but he keeps quiet about his suspicions, and hopes Kuroo’s life is enough of a favor to keep him in Kenma’s good books.

“Romero specializes in hybrid reconstruction,” Hinata’s rambling on, having been given the green-light to take Kageyama out for relocation. “Turns out we weren’t the _only_ people being experimented on illegally, go figure, and he’s a bit of a legend where he’s from, so people go to him for all sorts of things, ‘cept he doesn’t keep any of them around afterwards. Our team’s kinda small.”

Kageyama makes a vaguely affirmative noise, and lets Hinata lead him through the city by the hand. His eyes are peeled back as far as they’ll go, trying to take in every inch of his surroundings: the swelling crowds, the LED billboards, the sound and smell and heat of Tokyo South.

Kageyama, of course, has seen it all in pictures, but experiencing it himself is another thing altogether. It gets to the point where even Hinata is forced to slow down and loop one arm into the crook of Kageyama’s elbow to keep him from getting swept away. He’s stopped talking as fast, only to point out the little things instead—the glowing rims of a passing motorcycle, or the buses passing overhead, the elaborate vending machines clustered at intersections.

The two of them are moving under the cover of night, though Kageyama can’t exactly see the purpose, seeing as the city denies them any semblance of darkness; almost everything is covered in artificial light. Hinata must sense Kageyama’s confusion, because he then launches into an explanation about the relative culture of Tokyo’s nightlife without being asked.

“Yakuza,” he points out. Then: “Patrol teams, bionic architects, scavengers. Droid workers.” 

“And the civilians don’t mind?” Kageyama asks. All the people that Hinata has just named all belong to different branches of organized crime, or come so close to toeing the line they might as well have crossed it already. “Being among them like this?”

Hinata grins at him. “Nah,” he says.

Kageyama hasn’t heard about this before. “Well then, what are they—”

“It’s customary to wear face masks at night,” Hinata says, ignoring his question completely. “So it won’t get you in trouble even like this,” he pats the nearest part of Kageyama that he can reach, which turns out to be his stomach. Hinata’s touch is electric, even through all his gear.

Kageyama glances down at himself. He’s clothed a little too heavily to pass as a local, but the outfit’s really more for his emotional wellbeing than anyone else’s. He might be the last of the government’s foray into bionic experimentation on this side of the Earth, but he certainly isn’t the only one with multiple prosthetics. It’s a bit of a culture shock, if he’s being honest. He’d spent his whole life thinking he’d stick out like a sore thumb, but the deeper that Hinata leads him into the cyber district, the more Kageyama comes to realize that the only thing setting him apart from everyone else is the quality of his prosthetics, at most, and not their presence. 

It’s an easy stroll until they hit the city limit. Hinata comes to such a sudden stop that Kageyama nearly bowls him over. “We’re here,” he says.

Kageyama peers curiously at Hinata, then curiously at their surroundings. He’s about to ask how Hinata can tell the difference between these part of the sidewalk from the next, but Hinata’s shoving taggers into Kageyama’s wrists before he has the chance to get the words out of his mouth. It takes a minute for his system to register the change of ownership—so Kenma _hadn’t_ been lying when he told Kageyama that he’d been debugged—but the process is over quick enough; he’s always trusted Hinata from the start, so it’s not like he’ll fight the orders he’s given anyway.

Hinata buffs the back of his hand over Kageyama’s cheek to apologize. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll take them off as soon as we get to base.”

Kageyama shrugs. “It’s alright,” he says honestly. “I don’t mind them if it’s you.”

Something flashes across Hinata’s face, but the expression is gone as quickly as it appeared.

They make steady pace through the slums after that. It’s not an entirely deplorable area, but there are more wandering eyes. Every so often someone gets too close, and Hinata’s guns come out, or they catch sight of Kageyama’s wrists and they melt back so seamlessly into the architecture of the buildings around them that it’s like they’d never emerged in the first place.

「Who’s this?」 someone asks on their way into a building. It’s a low-rise with enough floors to be enviable, a couple of guys squatting out front. The guy speaks in a combination of English and heavily accented Japanese.「He’s with you?」

Kageyama’s taggers keep him from talking, but it’s not like he’d know what to say anyhow. Hinata takes the fall for him. 

「Yeah, Tomas.」Hinata grins. 「Is Romero in?」

Tomas’ face twists with understanding.「Still in his office.」he replies.「 Heard he had a run-in with Meian earlier, so he’s moping again.」

Hinata accepts a fist bump from Tomas.「The two of them gotta get their shit sorted out soon. Feels like I’m watching a damn soap opera or something.」

「No, shit, Shouyou.」

Hinata gives the other people clustered at the door a lazy salute—besides Tomas, there’s a lanky woman with blonde hair and a pixie cut, and another girl with a ponytail and dangerous looking gear, cigarette hanging from her lips. She raises her eyebrows at Kageyama when she catches him looking, mouth curling with amusement when he goes scarlet.

The next time he glances at her, both girls are staring openly. The blonde one is in the middle of motioning to her own wrists—portless—as the other nods, catching Kageyama’s eye with a knowing look. Kageyama goes even redder, if possible, and swivels his eyes firmly back to his shoes, doing his best to glare a hole into the pavement with his eyes alone so Hinata might finally wrap up his needlessly long conversation with Tomas. Kageyama might be both socially inexperienced, but even he’s combed through enough of the internet to know that taggers are the easiest way to lay public claim to someone on the streets.

「Cool, bro. I’ll see you around」is the next thing Kageyama hears. He sags with poorly concealed relief. Hinata holsters his gun as he gives the girls another lazy wave, then looks for Kageyama over his shoulder. Kageyama resolutely ignores the knowing expression that Tomas gives him, and follows Hinata into the building, cheeks burning.

From there, it’s only three flights of stairs and a long corridor before Hinata stops in front of Romero’s office. Hinata knocks curtly before letting himself in. The room itself is a decent size, sparsely decorated, but homely enough to suggest longevity at this location. Kageyama suspects that this particular group of bionic outlaws are at the top of the feeding chain; it’s hard to look at Hinata without seeing the way he’s changed over the years. Grown up fast on the streets, or something.

There’s a man slouched behind the singular desk, looking all the picture of handsome misery. Only about half the lights are turned on, and the open window spills strips of color across the room.

《 This is him? 》is the first thing out of his mouth, looking up from his beer and spotting Kageyama trudging into the room reluctantly after Hinata.《 Cute kid 》is the next. Kageyama, who’s still in the middle of downloading the Portugeuse language pack, bristles.

《 Sorry, it took a while. Kenma didn’t wanna let him go. 》Hinata says, then scrunches his nose up. Then: 《 Also, I would greatly appreciate it if you started _telling me_ who my assignments involve before you shove me out the door. I was not prepared to cry for that long in front of that many people upstairs. 》

Romero laughs. The motion brings his whole body into the light.

《 Forgot the two of you have history》Romero grins.《 My bad. 》

Here, standing at Hinata’s elbow, the first thing Kageyama notices about the man is how absurdly attractive he is. The second thing he notices is that Romero’s almost as much implant as Kageyama: beyond his roughlishly handsome features—that square jaw and aquiline nose—he’s plated from the neck down, though, like Kageyama, has only one prosthetic arm, not two.

Hinata gives him an unimpressed look.《 Heard from Tomas that you bumped into Meian earlier today 》he says.《 How’s the old man? 》

Romero’s eyebrow twitches. He returns Hinata’s look, and swings it in Kageyama’s direction.《 How’s he doing? Giving you trouble? 》

Hinata also turns to look at Kageyama. Kageyama, who doesn’t really know what to do, simply blinks back at him.《 Tobio’s alright. 》Hinata says.《 I had Akaashi give him a checkup before we headed back to base. Said he’s running fine. Crazy bastard though. Apparently took down a platoon on his own. 》

What either of them see in Kageyama is beyond him, but it doesn’t stop Romero from getting up from his desk anyway. He looks more his age up close: prosthetics are weathered in a way which suggests heavy usage, and his arm is ribboned with scars. They help, oddly enough, to ground him some. The retrieval team, despite the frantic backpeddling that came with Kuroo’s injuries, had been oddly subdued about everything they encountered; Kenma and Sakusa in particular—though the sentiment extended even to Akaashi Keiji: the engineer whom Kageyama exchanged maybe three words with in total during a later tune-up.

《 You can show him around if he’s good to go 》Romero says.《 I assigned Wakatoshi to take over later. Kenma wants us back at the Tower. 》

Hinata’s eyes widen.《 Already? 》he asks.《 I...didn’t think he was serious about following through with things. 》

Romero nods, sobering up a bit.《 He’s been in touch 》he shrugs.《 Any developments? 》

Hinata’s eyes don’t quite dart to Kageyama’s, but it’s a close call. He reaches back to curl fingers around Kageyama’s wrist instead. The gesture could almost be protective.《 No 》he says.

Romero’s lip twitches.《 Come by later for debrief then. Dismissed. 》

《 Sir 》Hinata says, inclining his head. 

Hinata turns to Kageyama. Then: “Let’s get you settled in,” he says, his voice is strangely gentle. Kageyama doesn’t think Hinata realizes he’s still holding onto his wrist, but he doesn’t mention it. It actually...feels kind of nice, if he’s being honest. “You must be tired from running around all day.”

Kageyama shrugs. He’s a bit fatigued, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. “I’m fine.”

Hinata’s nose scrunches. It’s...he’s. Cute. Or maybe Kageyama is more tired than he realized. He should run another diagnostic scan before bed.

Hinata tuns back to Romeo.《 Thanks again 》he says.《 For letting Kageyama stay. 》

Romeo’s eyes curl upwards with a smile. The look is indulgent, coupled with the way he’s slouched back against the desk.《 No worries, kid 》he says《 I’ll see you tomorrow? 》

Hinata nods, strangely resolute.《 Tomorrow 》he agrees.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, according to his files, is ex-yakuza. His entire back is covered with tattoos, traditional _irezumi,_ as much as Kageyama can tell, and piercings dot the shell of his uninjured ear. The man’s got a wicked scar spanning the entire right side of his face—one which necessitated an eye replacement—four jagged lines that look as if someone had taken their hand to his head. Half his right ear’s been taken off too, and the scarring is so long and deep that Ushijima’s hair grows in olive patches where the scar tissue bleeds into his hairline. His implants are minor, comparatively, and the OS much older. Kageyama suspects he’d been in a pod during the start of cyber-research.

After Hinata leaves on an undisclosed assignment, Ushijima shows Kageyama around. Ushijima helps him make a sweep of the armory, takes him shopping, even gifts him a booklet for his wrapping paper; Kageyama leaves it on the desk to leaf through before going to bed. He shares a room with Hinata—not an entirely unsurprising turn of events.

After they fit sheets over Kageyama’s new mattress, the two of them stand around in silence, glancing awkwardly between Kageyama’s bed and Hinata’s. Hinata’s side of the room is a burst of color and dirty clothes. Little pictures are taped to the wall above his bunk. Kageyama’s is a small booklet on his pillow and slate gray sheets. It’s...anyway, Hinata spends the next couple days bemoaning Kageyama’s lack of a color palette enough to make up for it; and even goes so far as to rifle through Kageyama's wardrobe, though comes up with the same three shades of black and not much else.

“I’ll be too noticeable,” Kageyama says, as if Hinata’s just said something incredibly dumb. He waves his arm around stupidly. “Anyone catches sight of this and it’s over.”

Hinata sighs, aggrieved. “I just thought that with Ushijima—” his face sours as he realizes who exactly went shopping with Kageyama earlier. “Yeah, nevermind,” he says, flopping backwards onto his own bed. “You two are hopeless.”

Kageyama’s mouth quirks upwards despite his best attempts to remain expressionless. “So I’ve heard,” he says. Then: “How’ve you been?”

Hinata groans, and rolls over onto his side. “Tired,” he says. “I feel like Kenma’s just trying to run me in circles at this point.”

Kageyama stares at him. He’s not sure how much he’s allowed to pry.

“We’re working on a long term project,” Hinata offers, almost as if he’s reached the same mental conclusion as Kageyama has about mission confidentiality. “Romero and I are stuck doing recon right now.”

“...I see.”

“Also,” Hinata perks up, gesturing vaguely at his head. “Akaashi wanted me to ask. Any change?”

Kageyama blinks at him, then flops backwards onto his bed, and throws an arm over his eyes. “I would’ve told you if there was, stupid.”

“Oh,” Hinata blinks. Then: “Sorry.”

Kageyama doesn’t have a good reply, because Hinata’s apologies are always genuine. He must look miserable though, because Hinata takes a swing at him, but still lays down next to Kageyama on the bed afterwards. He smells a bit like copper and smoke. Hinata is sturdier under Kageyama’s body, too, less like an errant gust of wind might snap him in half.

Kageyama can’t help but focus on the warmth of their bodies pressed together. There are things they still can’t tell each other it seems, even after all this time.

Kageyama dreams that night.

The world blurs in blue and red around him; the skin of his face is rough from the wind. Hinata’s waiting for him up ahead, one arm outstretched, Kageyama’s name in his mouth. His little face is twisted with fear. Their fingers miss by a milimeter.

A building goes up in flames somewhere to his left. There’s a holobike tipped over in the middle of the sidewalk. It glows orange and gold. He gets on. The engine comes to life, and then he’s roaring down city center; there’s only one building still intact in the midst of the burning city. Two stories, and a broken front gate. The yard’s been trampled. There is yelling, from inside. Kageyama goes flying off his bike in his haste. Every step he takes is like wading upstream, and feels the scream bubble in his throat, the world slowing down around him like a top spinning backwards. A face between the slats of the door. A pair of red hands, and in between their ghostlike fingers—nothing but fire. Kageyama knows, but _how does he know_ —

“Run!”

Kageyama’s close enough to the house now to feel the heat of the flames. It dries the cold sweat on his face into stiff nothing. Ten meters, five meters, one hand on the stoop of the porch. The cavity of his chest cracks open with one swift noise—a precursor, really, to the sound that tears the house in two.

A flash of silver hair on the second floor balcony. Long hair, the sweet set of a mouth tight with fear. Someone clears out the last shards of a broken window with the barrel of their rifle. Kageyama’s vision splutters. Somewhere in the distance, Hinata’s little body twists, lithe, through the shuttered darkness. Kageyama hits the ground. His left arm is truncated at the elbow, his femur separated from the joint of his hip. Broken ribs puncture his lungs. He looks up into the red glass of the burning house.

“Kageyama!” that voice again. _That voice again._ “Kageyama!”

His whole body shakes with the force of the next explosion. The roof shudders, shrieks, and crumbles. Kageyama looks up, and realizes with sickening dread that it’s coming down on him _._ He claws at the stone of the front porch, scrabbling madly for purchase—anything that will get him out, _please—_

“Kageyama!” Hinata shouts, shaking him hard enough that he finally jolts awake. _“Wake up!”_

Kageyama’s whole body seizes. His eyes fly open.

Hinata’s holding onto him hard enough to bruise. He bends down as Kageyama pushes himself up; the two of them meet halfway. Hinata’s hand moves to cup the back of his head. Kageyama’s heart like a bird in his chest. The darkness around him is an indiscriminate blur of color, shape, and sound. His mouth tastes like ash. It doesn’t feel like he’s breathing right. 

“It was just a dream. I’m here. It’s alright,” Hinata says. He presses the side of his own head against Kageyama’s, and doesn’t say anything about the sweat on his temple, or the jackrabbit pulse of his heart. His hand is cool through Kageyama’s thin shirt. “It was just a dream,” he repeats. “Just a dream.”

Kageyama’s had nightmares before, but never to this degree of intensity, like all the skin’s being seared from his bones. He still can’t form words, and clings pathetically onto Hinata’s shoulders, but Kageyama thinks that, if even he could, he wouldn’t know how to tell him, how to ask without giving it all away: _that house_ — _that red house_ — _why were you there too?_

It all comes to a head a month and a half later. They could only hide it for so long before Kageyama found out, in retrospect. It’s an unremarkable assignment that takes him there, one that he’s done enough to be trusted with solo: escort.

Kageyama is set to deliver Akaashi to Kenma and Kenma alone—proof of life is one of the rather impressed specifics of the escort missions—so when Akaashi pushes open to the door to the last meeting room—Kageyama’s secret favorite because of its winding balcony and floor-to-ceiling windows that open up onto Tokyo below—he follows mindlessly, only coming to a stop after he sees the mismatched set of people gathered around the table.

Hinata is sitting farthest from the door, Romero beside him. Kenma is at the head of the table, Kuroo—rackish and loose-limbed—is to his right. Even Atsumu Miya is there, an unhappy cigarette stuck between his teeth, leaning so far out of his chair that he might as well not be sitting on it anymore. Kageyama assumes it’s because he’s next to Iwaizumi Hajime, whose fingers have gone still on the screen of the files in front of him. Their eyes make painful and prolonged contact. Then Kageyama looks away into the the face of a thin-boned scientist, the only stranger in the room. 

His fingers are sprawled elegantly across the holodeck projection in the middle of the table. Flicking at...mockups of Kageyama’s implants.

He blinks at them. They blink back.

Romero smothers the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray between his and Hinata’s elbows; the motion draws Kageyama’s eyes to the screens on the table. More piecemeal reproductions of his prosthetics—medical records by the handful—that span six years of his time in the research labs. Iwaizumi’s hand covers the timeline of lab reports on his sternum implant. The visual aid is a picture of Kageyama’s artificial ribcage peeled back like a rack of lamb to expose his lungs.

Kageyama hasn’t actually seen the man since their last meeting in the research facility; he still has the Tamagotchi he’d been gifted stashed in his bunk, and had thought about what it might be like to see Iwaizumi again, though he knew it’d be unlikely— _he knew_ —but gave himself a fingernail moment to dream about it at night, to sometimes let his mind play out scenario after scenario. But even in their multitudes, none of them had turned out like this.

The man’s eyes won’t leave his face. Iwaizumi’s stare is impassive. Such unreadable eyes.

Iwaizumi had been smoking, too, but the boy next to him plucked the cigarette out of his fingers and snuffed it out for him in the ashtray. His fingers close around nothing. “Tobio, you should—”

“Leave,” the boy cuts off. His voice is as elegant as the rest of him. Then he turns to Kenma, who is watching over the proceedings in that catlike way of his. “He shouldn’t be here, Kozume-san. It’s a breach of security.”

Before Kenma can make up his mind, Kageyama blurts out: “Do I know you?”

The scientist glances back at him. He’s frowning slightly. The expression shouldn’t look as right as it does on his face. It feels a bit like an old wound reopened.

Hinata interrupts. “I agree with Kunimi,” he says. His voice is entirely incongruous with the way he’d been staring at Kageyama earlier—a bit of shock, a bit of sickness. Hinata speaking over him now stings like mad. He can’t help the way that he flinches backwards.

“What’s going on?” Kageyama interrupts. He can’t take it anymore. He’d been planning to let all this go, but the others are treating it like he’s made a mistake.

“I think we should let him stay,” Romero says.

“I have to object,” Hinata repeats, which seems to spur Iwaizumi’s side of the table into action. “I told you that he doesn’t remember anything. The blowback would be too much of him to handle if he’s not prepared.”

“And he’ll never be prepared at this rate, Shouyou,” Romero remarks mildly. 

“Romero-san—”

“Kunimi.”

The scientists eyes slit dangerously. There’s a thread of tension that runs between one side of the table and the other. Evidently Kunimi—and where has Kageyama heard that name before?—and Iwaizumi both have major issues with Kageyama joining the meeting. Of to him speaking at all.

“Both Hinata and I were there when Kageyama was built,” Kunimi says, scathing. “Perhaps you would do better taking a step back before dealing him some permanent damage.”

Romero’s silence is telling, but before anyone else can get a word in edgewise, Kuroo drawls: “Do any of you scheming motherfuckers actually wanna know what the kid has to say, or are you all just gonna let him stand there like he can’t decide things for himself?”

Kenma’s eyes slit with approval. “Take a seat, Kageyama,” he asks, gesturing towards the table at large.

Kageyama feels like a child being scolded in a room full of big figures. He asks Kenma: “Is this because I can’t remember?” his throat feels dry. “From before?”

Kenma meets his gaze, unwavering. “I suppose that’s what the others are so desperate to keep from you. Personally, I think it’s high time we recovered your memories.” 

“You can leave if you want,” Hinata interrupts. He looks a bit like he’s pleading. “If you want to. Nobody will force you to say.”

Kageyama looks at Romero instead. His voice won’t come out louder than a whisper. “Have they told you?” he rasps. “About me?”

“No,” he replies. “I never asked.”

Kageyama looks away, dropping his eyes to the floor between his feet. He puts a hand to his head, dizzy with it.

“Come, Tobio,” Romero says. He crosses the room, puts a gentle hand on his back. “We’ll find out together.”

He guides Kageyama to his emptied seat. Kenma rests his chin in one hand at the head of the table. He and Kuroo are the picture of elegant boredom, tilted together like matchsticks. He flicks his eyes over to Kageyama. “You have no recollection of anything previous to the lung operation?” he asks. Kageyama’s in the middle of a hesitant nod when: “And you lot,” Kenma snaps. “Stop sulking.

Kenma turns back to him. Kageyama shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Yeah,” he says. “The first thing I remember is—” heat and smoke. Fire. Hinata’s trembling hand in his. The sound of his bones cracking open. “The—lab.”

Kenma’s mouth curls thoughtfully. “Perfect,” he says, opening something up on his holoscreen. “We'll start at the beginning.”

* * *

**「CLOSED 05.11.21XX」  
  
**

「PG 0 | First Admittance」

 _Subject:_ Kageyama, Tobio  
_D.O.B:_ １２月２２日２１██  
Miyagi-ken Prefecture   
１０歳

 _Procedures (Chronological, listed):_ Neurosurgical ████  
██████  
████  
「Cross reference File ████」

 _[truncated for length]  
_ _[click to open…]_

—

「PG 2 | _RE-ADMITTANCE_ 」  
RE: KARASUNO

 _Subject:_ Kageyama, Tobio  
_D.O.B:_ １２月２２日２１██  
Tokyo South  
１9 歳

 _Add. Procedures (Chronological, listed):_ DOUBLE LUNG TRANSPLANT _(successful)  
_ AMPUTATION, ARM  
「Cross reference File ████」  
FEMUR REPLACEMENT  
POLYMER GRAFT  
_[read more…]  
_

_[truncated for length]  
_ _[click to open…]_

* * *

Sugawara Koushi had been a victim of human trafficking. This, of course, had nearly killed him, had he not met Daichi at an auction and convinced him to make a break for it that night. The boy on guard, Tanaka Ryuunosuke, had almost shot them on their way out of the estate, but he’d stopped in time to look them up and down, a meager sixteen to their seventeen, and radioed for help instead. Ittetsu Takeda and his husband answered the call. He and Ukai owned a parts pound at that time; they were essential to the livelihood of the bionics market, but ran on dangerous ground with international agencies. He and Takeda died fighting, apparently.

The leftover team was then comprised of six core members, and six auxiliary ones, and took up Ukai’s old name in his honor. They climbed the ranks like a machine in their early days. After Kageyama had joined the team, and a handful of others trailed along behind him, they managed to make a good enough name for themselves underground. Part of the unit also consisted of mechanics like Asahi and Yamaguchi—and the droid bastard Tsukishima—but most of them had been muscle. Hacking, prosthetic repairs, information trading. Karasuno did it all.

“Sugawara Koushi and Sawamura Daichi,” Kenma says. “Oversaw all of Karasuno’s recruitments. Unspoken leaders of your old unit,” he says. “They died during the infiltration by blowing up your base and about half a city block with it. All but two of the opposing contingent went with them.”

 _The red house,_ Kageyama thinks. So it was Sugawara’s face in the window. 

“Young heroes indeed,” Kunimi says. Kageyama glances at him. Hinata’s glare is far less kind. Kunimi bites out a smile when their eyes meet.

“Did the others…?” Kageyama asks hesitantly. 

Kenma swipes left on his screen. “Most survived,” he says. “Azumane Asahi, I believe, is in a labor camp,” he says. “Jury deemed his skillset too dangerous for probation. Tanaka Ryuunosuke remains officially uncounted for, though rumors are that he’s shacked up with the Shimizu clan,” Kenma says. Kageyama feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders. They’re a powerhouse bloodline with ties to old royalty; he should be safe there. “Ennoshita started his own group after Karasuno’s disbandment. Yamaguchi and his droid are with him, I believe. We’ve been trying to track them down, but they’re good at covering their tracks.”

Romero speaks up now. “Last I heard, they were just outside Kyoto. Tsukishima was in bad need of repairs,” he says. “I gave them the name of an old contact.” 

The look on his face suggests that he hasn’t heard back from them since. 

“Tsukishima’s still operating,” Hinata says. “No way Yamaguchi would give him up that soon.”

Kuroo makes an indecisive noise. “Depends if Kei’s changed his mind about his expiration date,” he says, cutting Hinata off before he can start. “There’s only so much that blind hope’ll get you out here, Shouyou.”

For a droid, Kei is young. For a kid in the underground, Yamaguchi is younger. Kageyama squints; he can remember Tsukishima if he tries—shrewd eyes, his pale height—and Yamaguchi his keeper.

“Kinoshita Hisashi and Yachi Hitoka both passed last year. Their deaths were ruled an accident,” Kenma purses his lips. “And the last member,” he pauses, blowing up the next file over the projector.

Romero’s grip tightens on his shoulder. Kageyama stares at him from across the table, uncomprehending. Hinata won’t look up from the floor. The look on Kenma’s face seems to border sympathy for once.

And the thing is: Kageyama’s always known that he’s faulty goods. Learning that he’d been acquired aged ten, and all his missing years with Karasuno—all this he could handle; he hadn’t expected much else for someone like him. The faces he’d forgotten, but kept seeing in the crowd: in the end, they were still little more than strangers. He could take the blows. He could _._ Kageyama had prepared himself for the worst, but he’d never expected it to be knocked entirely off kilter.

But all that disappears entirely when Kenma says: “Hinata Shouyou.”

Hinata won’t look up from the table. His nose is red, and Kageyama registers the feeling of being distinctly horrified to know he still finds him attractive. Kageyama has to put a hand to his forehead, and has to close his eyes against the sudden flash of a younger him. It’s the same face. The same curved lips, those rosebud knees.

For some reason, he’s also gotten to his feet. The motion had startled Romero’s hand off his shoulder, and forces the man several steps back, but he gets no further than that, one hand hovering by Kageyama’s elbow like he’s worried he’ll collapse without warning.

Kageyama can recall with sudden clarity the taste of ash in his teeth, coming back from an assignment to find the house on fire. Daichi’s last order— _run_ —and that gut-wrenching scream that nearly tore his throat in two.

“Kageyama—”

His voice is hoarse when he speaks next. “Who did it?”

Figures move in his periphery, but he doesn’t look at anyone else besides Kenma.

“The Karasuno Infiltration was a spec-ops mission that took place on the eighteenth of June,” Kenma says. Pictures come to life in the center of the table. Rotating text, and the errant photo.

**「AFF. AOBA JOHSAI | PG 4」**

RE: Karasuno Infiltration  
Active | _Inactive  
_

_Courier_ : Coded 99018.28  
_Involved Parties:_ ████ ████████████ ██ █████████  
██ ██████ ██████ ██  
██████ ██████ ██████  
_Report:_ Successful  
_[click for more… ]  
_

_COMMANDING OFFICERS_ : Oikawa Tooru (deceased)  
Iwaizumi Hajime

 _ON SITE:_ Matsukawa Issei (deceased)  
Hanamaki Takahiro (M.I.A)  
Kyoutani Kentarou (M.I.A)  
Kindaichi Yuutaro (deceased)  
_[click to expand…]  
_

_AFF THRU:_ Kunimi Akira

 _[truncated for length]  
_ _[click to expand…]_

“It was a combined effort on the part of several agencies and a rival unit to bring both you and Shouyou in,” Kenma says. His fingers are very still on the tabletop. “The team went by the name Aoba Johsai. Seijoh for short. Or better known upstairs as Blue Castle,” he says. “You might be familiar with a few of their members.”

Oddly, it’s in this moment when Kageyama is reminded of his first lesson in warfare. There was a period of some odd months of time where he’d been expected to study and execute a series of battle strategies: which formations were most effective for a certain number of soldiers, when to push the cavalry, when to execute flanking maneuvers. It was an outdated course, in his opinion, but he’s always been eager to please, and learned his lessons well; he can even recite, now, the best ways to strangle a wayward enemy force, to distinguish tactics most effective against battalions and regiment squads; how to tighten the noose around their neck so carefully they wouldn’t realize until it was too late until it was too late.

Kageyama feels like a byproduct of that lesson now, with two slow-closing hands around the base of his throat.

 _Iwaizumi Hajime,_ the file reads. _Kunimi Akira._

And he just keeps thinking, a record on repeat: that this must have been the truth that Hinata had been protecting him from. Kageyama had been a fool to doubt him, to think him so shallow. It was never about his childhood. It wasn’t even about Karasuno, really. It was about the sharp cut of Kunimi’s face. The loveless slope of Iwaizumi’s hands. All that Kageyama had forced himself to forget because the truth itself was too great and terrible a burden to bear. 

Hinata gets to his feet, frantic. Iwaizumi too, from where he’s seated on the other side of the table. But Kageyama can only register Romero’s kind face through it all. He’d been the only person not involved somehow, and hadn’t known until Kageyama had known. There’s not a trace of guilt in his eyes, just the shell of fear when he says: “Look at me, Tobio,” his hand comes up to grip bruisingly tight around Kageyama’s arm. “Not at them. Just look at me.”

Kageyama’s gaze is unfocused, fixed somewhere in the middle distance. His breath comes ragged and irregular.

Romero puts another hand on his back, the last real thing Kageyama registers through the pain of his head and chest, the numbness of his fingers. He can’t feel his legs anymore. He can’t even blink—the next bolt of pain rips through him like a hammer. He bites down on a sudden noise. 

Romero’s saying something to him, reaching up to wipe at the sudden wet on his face. He says: “Let’s get you off your feet, Tobio. Please sit down. I need you to breathe.”

Kageyama realizes that he’s shaking all over. He can’t see through the tears, can’t draw in even half a mouthful of air.

Romero’s face twists with panic. Even Atsumu gets to his feet then, Kageyama’s name on his lips. 

He tries and fails, again, to speak. His vision blurs. Then, after another failed breath—he falls.

Both Ukai Keishin and Sugawara Koushi had been brilliant tacticians. Daichi took some more coaching into the skillset, but his work was passable enough; for them to have masterminded Kageyama’s escape at the tender age of eighteen and some months was already testament to their skill.

Sugwara’s face was the first thing Kageyama remembered seeing, when he’d finally made it back to base camp. That night, even in his piecemeal dreams, had been a blur to him. Asahi’s eyes, and Tanaka’s. Kageyama remembers not being able to keep up—still thin, and lacking stamina—and had to be carried on Daichi’s back for the last part of the trip. But it was Suga who was sat by Kageyama’s bed when he finally woke, his whole face curved with a smile under the light of the sloe afternoon, and asked what his name was. 

That night he died, he’d been smiling at Kageyama too—putting a playful finger to his lips, as if to say _this can be our secret too_ —his face painted red and yellow from the flames outside. Hinata had been the one to drag Kageyama away, he thinks. It must have been him. It had to have been him.

Kageyama comes to from the touch of cool fingers against his browbone. His head is pounding, and he’s still dizzy even lying down. “Father?” he asks.

Romero glances at him. The look of naked relief that spreads of his face might have embarrassed him any other day.

“Tobio,” Romero says. He leans forward in his chair, taking his hands off Kageyama’s forehead. “How are you feeling?” he asks.《 Does it hurt anywhere? 》

Kageyama tries to shake his head. He winces when the motion jostles the IV in his neck. Romero’s looking at him, unnervingly attentive, even as Kageyama runs a rudimentary scan to double check for hardware issues. “‘M fine,” he croaks. Nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

Romero doesn’t look like he believes him, but helps him sip at a cup of lukewarm water regardless, and pulls the covers back up to his chin. His hand goes back to Kageyama’s face: first, brushing away the hair at his temples, and then pressing the back of it against his forehead. And Kageyama, still incandescently feverish, can’t help but lean into the touch. 

《 Do you remember what happened? 》Romero asks.

Kageyama blinks at him. If Hinata had his way, Kageyama knows he’d be in his bed instead of muddling around outside. His brow furrows.《 I was in the middle of downloading the files when I passed out 》he says.《 I think I was restarted while asleep, but all the information should still— 》

Romero holds up a hand. Kageyama’s mouth shuts with a click.《 I didn’t ask for a mission report, Tobio 》he says.《 I don’t care about the files. I’m asking after you. 》

Kageyama watches him, eyes wide.

《 Kenma and the little one—what’s his name? Kunimi? 》Romero says.《 Had to take you into the lab. They said the left hemisphere of your brain had shut down completely. 》

Kageyama watches Romero’s face carefully. It must have been worse than he realized. Romero’s whole body is creased with exhaustion. 

《 You were in pretty bad shape 》Romero scrubs a hand down his face. He looks like he’s itching for a smoke. The tension in his shoulders can’t seem to settle, and travels down the length of his arm all the way to his fingertips, and then back up again.《 Shouyou said the same things kept happening after Karasuno disbanded. That’s why they had to wipe your data. 》

Kageyama picks at the bedsheets. He’d figured that was the case. It hurt a bit to hear someone say it out loud though, and feels a bit like he’s being scolded for his inability to be well-adjusted.

《 Well, I’m better now 》he says lamely.

《 It’s alright if you’re not 》Romero says.《 There’s no rush for you to be anything. 》

《 Okay, but I’m—okay. 》

Romero searches his face for a long moment. He closes his eyes on a long exhale.《 You’ve worked hard, Tobio 》he says. He knows this is the one argument he probably won’t win.《 Rest. 》

Romero catches Kageyama after he falls, one hand cupped wide around the back of his head. The boy is unnaturally still.

《 He’s not breathing 》he says.

Kuroo, who’s already on his feet, asks: “The fuck’s he saying, Hinata?” 

“He said that he’s not breathing.”

Kenma says: “Kuroo.” 

“Sir.”

“Clear the lab out on Floor 12,” he says. “With Miya. Go.”

Kunimi shoulders his way through. “I can help,” he says. Atsumu’s hand clamps down around his arm. Holds him back. “Look. I can help,” he insists, trying to shake him off. Atsumu is stronger than him though. “Let me go, Miya,” he snaps. “Tobio’s going to die, and you still want to play games—”

“Stay the fuck away,” Hinata snarls, getting out of his seat. He shoves his face into Kunimi’s. “I’m not letting you get your dirty motherfucking hands on him again. Tobio, _my ass_ —”

Kunimi’s lip curls. “Your little game of pretend with those Karasuno freaks wouldn’t have lasted a day longer,” he spits. “I was just helping things move along.”

Kunimi is quick, but Hinata moves quicker, and isn’t held back by Atsumu besides. He slams his fist so hard into Kunimi’s cheek that his head snaps back and his legs slide out from under him. Atsumu lets go of Kunimi’s arm as Hinata pounces again, straddling his chest to keep him down, drawing his fist back again and again; Kunimi does a poor job defending; his nose snaps sideways with a sudden pulse of blood.

The room descends into chaos. Hinata fists two hands in the expensive collar of Kunimi’s shirt. Kunimi’s face is a mess of blood and spit, his neck an elegant arch against the floor. He isn’t speaking, because he can’t. Iwaizumi watches from the sidelines, and isn’t speaking either, but that’s because he won’t.

“Was it worth it, you piece of shit?” Hinata’s voice is frayed to the point of breaking. “Was it worth it? Selling us out?”

Kunimi’s eyes are hard underneath all that bloody skin of his. He reaches up with one shaking hand to wrap fingers around Hinata’s wrist. His grip is weak, though his face is pinched with fury. “Don’t talk to me about righteousness. Your fearless leaders blew our entire unit to kingdom come.”

Hinata’s grief is an open wound. Still uncauterized, even after all these years. He slaps Kunimi across the face. “I buried them in empty caskets,” he spits. “Do you know what that’s like? _Do you?_ ”

Kunimi’s face contorts. Such an ugly thing. “I made him, Shouyou,” he snarls. Kunimi doesn’t even have to say Kageyama’s name. Between them, there’s only ever been one _him_. “Of course I know what it’s like.”

Kenma’s later exams, as impersonal as they are, barely hold a torch to Kunimi’s stunning indifference.

The closest he’d gotten during their entire session together was when he was checking for swelling around Kageyama’s implant. Kunimi palpated the skin around his ears, and the side of his head: following the two thin lines of raised tissue around the circumference of his skull. Kunimi’s fingers were warm, despite his cold exterior, and his touch almost unbelievably gentle.

Kunimi was still mourning, that much was clear. His grief—however sharp, however slight—still weighed on him: his very own mountain of corpses.

Kunimi took his time packing up his tools. Kageyama watched him go.

The others come to him easily enough, but it’s Iwaizumi’s visit which takes him by surprise. It’s dark out, and the lights are off, but he moves with surety through the darkness, pulling out the chair by Kageyama’s bed with one scarred hand.

Neither of them speak. The darkness around them shifts from blue to purple to black. Wind howls outside the window, but other than that, it is quiet. Kageyama understands what it’s like to need time.

When Iwaizumi finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Tooru died that night,” he says. Kageyama thinks that maybe his words— _it’s alright if you want to cry; I won’t look_ —wasn’t meant for him, really. It strikes Kageyama then, how young Iwaizumi really is. Three, maybe four years older than him at most. “I didn’t know I could love anyone that much.”

He came to Kageyama to try and find somewhere to let him go. “My family too…they,” Iwaizumi tries, but can’t finish the sentence. He still holds their ghosts so close and bloody to his heart.

Kageyama is looking out the window onto the rolling spread of Tokyo South. Space enough for ten heartbeats. Fifteen. The ugly thing between them has already lost meaning. Then he says, without pain: “So did mine.”

It takes another handful of days until Kageyama’s considered fit for duty. 

Kenma calls for another strategy meeting as soon as he’s back on his feet; apparently the whole point of the first one was data gathering for the country-wide exposure of illegal bionics research before Kageyama had interrupted, so it’s the same set of people that greets him upon discharge.

Kageyama takes a nervous seat by Hinata’s right. Kenma starts up where they left off with uncanny efficiency, but the meeting drags for an hour and a half before they get anywhere substantial. 

“Here, here, and here,” Hinata argues, drawing his arm in wide circles against the map on the table. Where his fingers touch, little red flags pop up. “If we mount a simultaneous campaign, they won’t recover in time before the Kyoto branch is dismantled.”

Atsumu agrees with him from across the table. Romero offers a contact. Before Kenma gives his final thoughts, everyone in the room turns to look at Kageyama; it feels like they’re waiting for his approval. Although Kageyama’s the lynchpin of their new strategy, he still wants to say: _it's not really my jurisdiction_. He’s just a foot soldier. But even Kenma watches him, unblinking, from across the table.

He shrugs, hands in his pockets. “Light ‘em up,” he says.

Kageyama has the same dream almost every night. In it, he stands on a burning building at the edge of the world, mouth singing from the quicksilver heat of Hinata’s lips against his own. The wind is so strong that it pushes him towards the edge of the rooftop. The sky opens up like a ribbon of blue both above and below. 

Kageyama closes his eyes, and steps out onto nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to lauren for helping me edit even though i did nothing but cry for hrs on end over the phone w her. thanks to elo and jo for strongarming me into putting kunimi in this & consoling my idiot self (and mars for being mars). thank u to some longtime readers of mine that are still here despite the fact that i never post anything lol. and thank u to my other readers as well!!! i appreciate (all 3 of) u greatly 
> 
> heres [my twitter](https://twitter.com/flowerizuku) (unfortunately)
> 
> (+ thinking of turning this into a series?)


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